little soapbox
by urfriendlyneighborhoodpan
Summary: It can be a little difficult to find a place to be alone together.


**I do not own _Steven Universe_.**

* * *

There isn't much aside from a plain mattress, a soap box, and some old posters hung up. As a clubhouse it isn't anything impressive, the old shed was located ten minutes deep in the woods near the beach and if anyone even halfway attempted to lose themselves in the shallow crowding of trees they'd easily find this place. The windows had no curtains and the door was a wooden slab cutout, thin and light. He moves it aside and gestures her in before him, and when he ducks inside behind her he has to shift it back into place. It does nothing to hold out the elements, there are fallen leaves all over the ground and it smells dank and bitter. He places his backpack on the soap box and rifles through it for a clean blanket to lay over the mattress for her to sit.

"It's shitty," he says, holding out a can of soda for her to take. "But at least we're alone."

There aren't many places for them to find refuge in town. Everyone knows one another and there is always somebody knocking on their bedroom doors seeking them out. He's never been inside her own home, but when she tells him _no_ he does not push her to let him over. His own house is a loud, unfriendly place and the few times he's invited her have been when there is no one else there to make comments in another language she cannot understand.

His room is only slightly better than this place, but at least it has air conditioning.

"How do you know about this place?" she asks, if only to fill the dead space between them. He has taken to fidgeting with his own can of soda, lingering awkwardly by the other window. His lips form a thin line and he takes a sip, edging toward her a little.

"When I was in middle school, I made some friends who were in high school. They weren't exactly good people, but they found this place and made it into something. Back then, it was kinda of a hotspot. It looked better than this, I swear, but people started losing interest and. Well, only people who remember come back here sometimes."

She glances over at the posters; bands she used to listen to back in the day and hasn't heard from in years. There are initials carved into the wall, some scribbled out in black marker and others in ball point pens. She knows he uses the word _friends_ lightly, and she does not attempt to pick out his own name among the others.

"Hungry?" he asks to change the subject, moving back over to his backpack and setting down his soda beside it. She consider this, tilting her can from side to side to listen to the liquid slosh around inside, before leaning forward to place it a few feet away from her.

"I know we're supposed to go slow about this," she begins, and watches him visibly tense. "But the longer we're here the more I feel like someone's gonna pop up and get in the way again." She wipes her hands on her jeans and meets his gaze. There is color rising under the dark skin of his cheeks and she sees his Adam's apple bob as he swallows audibly. "Maybe…afterward…?"

He takes a moment, and then begins to pull out the various snacks and drinks he thought to bring along, piling them on the soap box before moving his backpack to the space beside the mattress. Another moment, and then he cautiously sits down next to her. The foot or so he leaves between them still feels too close for a moment, and even when he moves his hand to the edge of the mattress she forces off the sudden impulse to draw further away.

They have been closer than this, but the promise of _more_ hangs in the air and it is all too stifling. Kissing him on the neck no longer feels risqué, and all the times he's ever let his hands drift up her back or over her thighs seems more like child's play in light of this. He's mentioned before the brief instances he's ever gone further with girls, always hurried and fumbling and awkward and never as good as they show in the movies. He can't tell her how a girl tastes between her legs but he knows how it's supposed to work, where to move his fingers and how many to use. In comparison, she knows next to nothing. She has watched videos before, the most recent of which she's done so with him; on his phone and sharing a pair of earphones, huddled at the back of the donut shop during their break and glancing furtively toward the door in case any little boys with tightly curled hair and too-big eyes appeared to exchange friendly conversation.

He has only ever gotten as far as rubbing the heel of his palm over her through her jeans, digging the seam up into her and dragging a gasp from her mouth. It had all seemed too loud and they had immediately sprang apart in a panic.

The forest is terribly quiet, they can hear their own breaths. Somewhere in the distance, if she strains her ears just enough, she can make out the hiss and sigh of the ocean meeting the shore. It is almost relaxing if not unnerving, it sounds just like white noise being played from a CD. When she looks at his face, she can see his eyes moving back and forth, brow furrowed in concentration as if he is on the exact same train of thought she is. There is the faint and rhythmic banter between two seagulls up in the air, and he straightens at the sound. He leans back to let a line of pops relieve his spine, rolls his broad shoulders and then his neck and sighs very softly. It draws her small hand to his knee and makes his entire process pointless; he tenses back up and she nearly retracts in guilt.

"Right," he says, and then brings his hand up to fold over hers. It is warm and swallows hers up entirely, she can make out her small and pale fingers from between his long and brown ones, but no more than that. His thumb moves over the side of her hand soothingly. "Right. No more stalling."

It is another moment before he curls his fingers over and brings her hand up, angles his head to press his lips lightly to her second knuckles. He lingers there, and then meets her gaze from over them, intent heavy. There is an unspoken question underneath the surface and she nods shakily; he moves their joined hands back into his lap and leans in to find her mouth with his.

They've been in this position before, there is nothing new about kissing him anymore. She has explored his mouth with hers as thoroughly as he has hers, and the familiarity tosses them into something comfortable and good. He sucks on her lower lip the way she likes, and she traces his teeth with her tongue the way _he_ likes. He tilts his head and a smile curves their lips for a second before they find another pace to move in. It is when they cannot catch their breaths long enough to fall back into it that they have to break the kiss, but he takes this time to evaluate her, from the beaming red on her lips to the darkened color of her eyes.

"It's a little unfair," he commented that one time, clearing his history after they decided to stop watching the video. She'd turned away from him to calm her breathing, and he waited until she looked at him before continuing. "The guy barely has to take anything off, but if a girl wants to have a quickie like that she basically has to get half naked."

Neither one of them had thought to remember this fact, and so when she crawls up to lay out on the mattress it dawns on her that should they be caught, he'll have an easier time of hiding himself than she will. He is digging through his backpack as she turns this over in her mind, and as she toes off her shoes he lays out a condom and a small bottle of lube on the space beside her head.

She screws her mouth shut and shoots him a look and he shrugs sheepishly. "Better to be safe than sorry," he says, moving over to her. "Sometimes you need a little help, and we don't exactly have all the time in the world, so."

It is a thoughtful gesture, there is something apologetic about his words and the smile he offers up is reassuring and ashamed at the exact same time.

He lays on his side and leans up on his elbow, drifts his hand down the swell of her stomach and down toward the button of her pants. She blinks as he undoes it and again they are bombarded with the realization that they are about to take an enormous step forward. His fingertips touch the soft skin underneath as he pinches the zipper and carefully pulls it open.

"Is it weird you're older than me?" he asked once, and she hadn't managed to stifle her laugh.

"A year or two in difference is nothing," she replied. "At least it won't be when we're older. If we last that long, ask me again."

Now, she can feel the years between them. He seems much older than she is in this moment but the lines of his face are somewhat smoother than hers. She has been mistaken for younger before but she knows her own body better than anyone else. This is technically illegal, he is still in high school and she's in her first year of college. It's not unheard of, but suddenly it falls over like a ton of bricks and she has to wonder if perhaps he is meant to be with someone else, if she is _keeping_ him from someone else—some pretty girl in his math class sighing from across the room as she watches him struggle over some simple equation.

"Me first?" she asks, hands curling over her chest as she watches his slide up to crease the hem of her shirt back over her belly. It skips back down to grind the heel of his hand between her legs the way it had that other time and her reaction is immediate; the twitch of her hips upward to meet him and the hitch of her breath. His fingers move back to find the flimsy waistband of her underwear and push underneath. Her knees pull up slightly as he cups her gently and pauses there for a moment.

"You first," he responds, and lightly strokes her. "Always, you first."

He spends a few minutes tracing her shape before she gets out, "W-Wait," and sighs when he retracts immediately. "Let me take off my pants first. I don't wanna ruin them."

He stops to help her fold them over the end of the mattress, and when his hand finds her thigh he stops again to ask, "You shaved your legs?" He runs his hand back and forth over her skin and slows over the tiny prickle of a missed strand of hair.

"They were awful this morning, believe me," she mutters.

"They're not that bad," he says, "but I appreciate the thought."

The first time he'd felt her legs, it had been unwarranted. She had swung them up onto his lap and laid back on his sofa to watch the TV more comfortably and when she felt his fingers poke under the leg of her pants she had jerked upward to retreat but he had held firm.

"Neat," he'd said, his thumb moving over a long strand of dirty blonde hair. "Keeping it natural, I see."

But this is supposed to be special, she decided. She hadn't gathered the nerve to remove the hair between her legs, and so she had settled for this instead. She hadn't done the same underneath her armpits, but she figured this was good enough. His hands continue to touch and feel her skin and he mumbles something about _silk_ and she bristles in satisfaction.

"I might not do it again," she warns now, as he moves back onto his elbow and slides his hand toward her underwear. "Enjoy it while you can."

"Wish we had more time," he sighs, and before she can retort, he tugs on the curls between her thighs and it sends a shock up and down her body, sharpest where he touches. Her back arches just a little and this is the first time he's ever elicited a response like that. He watches her face in wonder and then tugs a little softer a second time, dancing his fingers back down to trace the slit. "Sensitive—maybe hair's better."

"I heard it's more sensitive without," she says around short breath. He's taken more interest in peeling the fabric of her underwear away from her hot skin, but he hums and nods in thought.

"That might just depend on the person and what they like, then. Maybe one day we can try it, up to you."

"You're being so nice," she comments as he shifts over her to curl his fingers around the sides of her underwear. She lifts her hips so he can safely pull them off, and again he is careful to lay them atop her pants at the end of the mattress.

"I mean it's your first time—mine, too, actually." He stares at her face for a moment before training his eyes on the shapes of her breasts under her shirt. "I've always been mean to you, but the more time we spend together the more I'm learning not to be. Give me a little more time, it'll come more natural and then you won't even be able to tell the difference anymore."

She has hardly any time to feel self-conscious when he trails down to look at her. The patch of blonde curls or the expanse of her body, pressed up by the hard mattress springs. There is a rising of white webs on her hips, down her inner thighs and calves, and he traces them lightly for a moment. He has an imperceptible look in his eyes but she cannot pick out disgust from them.

She figures this is a plus.

"If I you want, I can try going down on you," he offers after a moment, and she's thrown by this. He runs his hand over her soft thigh and up to her knee and pushes it away just a little. He doesn't look her in the eye until too many seconds pass without reply, and when he does she has to suck the air back into her lungs to speak.

"That might take too long," she manages around a tight throat.

"Maybe," he agrees, and moves his hand back down to touch her. "Some other time. This weekend? My parents will be out and I won't have any homework to do. Plenty of time."

"Okay," she laughs a little, but her nerves are horribly frayed.

"I guess I'll just use my fingers, then," he says, and gently parts her folds with two of them as he leans back to look. She is pink, vibrant in all ways and softened at the edges by the wheat blonde hairs framing her. He turns his hand on his wrist and sinks his long middle finger into her slowly.

She told him once that she has touched herself before, and he couldn't help but glance down at her small hands and their tiny fingers and wonder if they had ever done the damage she needed.

The muscles are slick and silken, they wrap tight around his finger and the fleeting moment in which he basks in this is overcome by the memory of an older girl telling him this didn't always mean a good thing. And so he leans over to press his mouth to her forehead, and then the tip of her nose, down to her lips and tongue their parting. He nibbles lightly on the lower one as he sets a slow rhythm; dragging his finger out and then sinking it back inside, curling and twisting and bringing his thumb to rub feather light over the nub rising there at the top. The second finger he adds coaxes her muscles to relax, and she rocks her hips up in time to his pace, meeting and meeting him beat for beat. The juices collecting on his fingers and knuckles are hot and slippery, they cool fast but the smell surrounding them makes his mind hazy. He shifts closer until he can grind against her to relieve the pulsing in his pants.

He angles different over her so that he can take her earlobe into his mouth, work his way down her throat, and it is only when she sobs his name that he scissors his fingers and adds a third into the mix.

"I do wanna taste you," he breathes, and she whines restlessly, writhes up into his hand and grips the blanket under them. One small hand shoots down to wrap around his wrist and hold him there tightly, it doesn't still him but it certainly restricts his tricks. He waits a second before pushing his fingers in deep and spreading them as wide as he can in her heat; she cries out and squeezes her eyes shut and he can't help shooting a glance over his shoulder at the thin, thin door. If someone found them, now, it would forever haunt her.

He shushes her very gently, molds his mouth over hers and speeds up the pace of his fingers. He wants to compensate for what he won't be able to soon. He knows for a fact he won't last long at all, and if he can satisfy her beforehand, she will perhaps find an easier way of forgiving him that. The following realization he had thinking her clit would be too sensitive for his touch during the act had him softening the brush of his thumb over it; this proves to be the right course of action accidentally, as she begins to convulse beside him. Her little pink toes curl and her back rises off the mattress, she holds so tight to his wrist he fears it'll snap and her muscles come in close against his fingers as if to milk of him of what isn't there. When he finally extracts his hand, he finds them so thoroughly coated in her he decides the lube won't be necessary—thankfully.

He knocks it over the edge of the mattress and into his backpack and turns his attention to his glistening fingers, considers them, and then sucks them clean one by one. They don't necessarily have a taste, something very vaguely salty and just as subtly sweet. The scent is thick and flowery and he spends a few extra seconds licking in between his fingers to find every last drop.

"Certainly not what I expected," he shares with her when he finds her watching him, eyes glassy and face splotched red. "But not bad at all, Sadie."

At her name, she burns a deeper shade but she spares him a scoff. "I can say the same thing to you," she says in a breathy voice, and he smiles thoughtlessly.

Moving himself over her derives from him a preposterous amount of bravery, he settles on his knees and sits back, undoing his pants and pushing them down until he springs free. Her eyes trail down to the jut of him, the veins, soaks in his size and color and the dark hair at the very base and all she says is, "It never occurred to me that wasn't your natural hair color."

A laugh tumbles out without thinking and he's once again relieved that it is her he is experiencing this with. Everything is coming much easier than he has ever anticipated and he knows the payoff will be more gratifying knowing she is the one who brought him there.

He reaches for the packet and tears it open, picks the condom out and gingerly rolls it on. He places a hand at her side as he leans over her and pauses to say, "I didn't really think through how we're going to dispose of this when we're done."

"The food will become trash later," she says, flippant. "We can toss it out with that."

"This would've been better in an actual room," he sighs, parting his knees and he moves between hers and reaching a hand down to guide him toward her entrance. "Or somewhere warmer than this, at least."

"We can't regret this," she replies, bringing her legs up a little. "We're here now and we're not turning back."

Pushing inside of her is not as easy as he expects, there is no pain in her eyes but there is clear discomfort. She pulses hard around him and the heat is overwhelming, the wrap of her muscles and the way he catches against them makes him delirious, light-head and mouth wet. He groans as he pushes in deeper and rocks his hips when she clenches too tight. Her legs press close to his sides, heels digging into his flanks and hands grasping at the back of his shirt. She is panting, wiggling underneath him under some pressure he cannot comprehend; he tries very hard to keep from moving but she is just as determined as he is to feel more.

"It doesn't hurt," she assures him around her struggling, and he feels some doubt at this. "I've just never had anything like this inside of me and I don't know how to adjust."

The body has ways of doing this on its own, they both know this somewhere at the backs of their minds, but they are both so young and so hungry for this they don't allow it to run its course. She curls the fingers of one hand into the material over his hip and tugs just as she rocks upward. She rolls her wide hips and wraps her short legs around his waist and does not let go. She is so hot and so wet he can't think straight anymore, he's losing his mind under the sensations he is not allowing himself to indulge in.

"Fuck me," she tells him, and it is the first time he's ever heard her say something so crass. It excites him in ways even the drag of her blunt teeth over his throat cannot.

He braces his elbows on either side of her head and pulls out halfway, holds for a second to swallow his building nerves, and then drives back in quickly. She meets him successfully in the middle the third or fourth time and he soon loses count. He opens his knees wider and turns a hand under her shoulder to grip it tightly, it is pliant he knows there will be pale marks left in the wake of his fingers. The other hand finds the top of her head and holds her in place, readjusting above her until he can tuck her under his chin and pound his hips into her with the necessary force to have her sobbing his name. His feet dangle off the end of the mattress, he's so tall and so he brings as much of his weight as he feels safe doing atop her own, driving it all into his rhythm. He grunts when he feels her nails dig into the skin under his shirt and at his hip and wishes he can feel more of her against him.

Clothes are restrictive, it's moments before their shirts shift high enough at the fronts he can feel her soft belly against his flat one and when he does it brings forth a growl from his throat—or maybe it's the way her hand slides under his waistband to cup his backside. Either way, he feels need to pull away and yank his shirt over his head and toss it aside. He folds hers over her bra and forces down a cup to squeeze her full breast. She gasps his name and he digs in deeper into her, grinds his pelvis into hers and rests his weight on one hand.

"Too much," he manages to groan, and she seems to understand what he means. She slides one small hand between them and deftly works at herself with more confidence than he can ever muster alone. She comes apart beneath him moaning, eyes rolling back and muscles clenching hard around him. He falls along with her and nearly collapses atop her. They lay panting and boneless beside one another on an old, abandoned mattress and as soon as he can find the strength to, he pushes himself up to tug off the condom and knot it at the end. "I guess this napkin is an okay place to keep it until I can throw it away."

"I need some to wipe this off," she pipes up, but when she tries to sit up she finds all strength has been zapped from her muscles. Her thighs are still trembling and he eyes her for a moment before pulling out a small hand towel to clean the liquid from her skin.

"I know you're not supposed to bleed the first time, but a rule of thumb is to bring one with you just in case," he says when she gives him a look.

"So the black blanket wasn't a coincidence," she smiles, and takes the towel to pat dry more delicate areas. He tucks himself back into his boxers and stands to pull his pants back up, zips and buttons them shut before moving around to collect her shoes from the floor. He helps her pull her clothes back on and into place and ties her shoelaces for her. "How 'bout some grub? Worked up a sweat."

"Thanks." He hands her the small pile of food and busies himself folding the blanket back over itself. "It's soaked through," he comments as she opens a bag. He sits down beside her to grab a handful.

"I'm sure other people have been here," she says, and he shudders at the thought of having shared a space with them. "This mattress has seen things, and you were thoughtful enough to foresee that."

He leans against her and pops open another can of soda. "So, this weekend."

"Definitely."

.x.

 **A.N.** **: Welp.**


End file.
